


Experimental

by hotskytrotsky



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Actual Experiment, Character Study, F/F, First Time, Lesbian Experiment, Morally Ambiguous Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 05:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1766653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotskytrotsky/pseuds/hotskytrotsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So I am a - prostitute? A prostitue with an advanced degree?"<br/>"Does that bother you?"<br/>Dr. Cormier looked deep into her supervisor's eyes, jaw clenched and mouth hard. "No," she said. The mission was foremost.</p>
<p>Delphine finds out what her job description as monitor really is, and grapples with the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Experimental

                “The mission,” Dr. Leekie reminded her, over and over again, in his self-important infomercial voice. “Is foremost.”

                It had never crossed her mind that sticking to the mission would pose a challenge.

                Dr. Cormier had leapt at the chance when that thick, professional folder full of enticing information slid across the desk; she’d almost leapt out of her seat. _Monitor._ A chance to study the true outcome of all her research, and all that of thousands of Dyad scientists before her? A chance to interact on a daily basis with her subject, to be witness and recorder of an incredibly thorough, ever-expanding cache of data on the biological phenomena of 324B21?

                _Sign me up,_ she’d said, breathless with excitement. And added _Please,_ as a whispered after-thought.

                That thick embossed folder was stacked full of sheets of information on her new position; and even more numerous were the forms she’d have to sign. Tax forms, contracts, liability forms – and confidentiality, of course. There were scores of confidentiality forms, and had been ever since she’d been an unpaid intern at Dyad, fresh out of undergrad. It was a little fishy – but now Dr. Cormier understood their purpose.

                But for all the information that folder contained, it lacked a lot more.

                It started:

_Your esteemed supervisor Aldous Leekie, PHD, and the Dyad Institute are honored to offer you the position of monitor to Subject 324B21 (legal name Cosima R. Niehaus)…_

That was the last time Dr. Cormier ever witnessed the subject referred to by name, in the entire encyclopedic span of literature on her charge. She had never thought of it as dehumanizing; the scientist knew that the same cells divided and died by the minute in plants and bacteria and animals and humans, and subsequently was of the opinion that there was no rigorous biological corpus that proved a meaningful distinction between humans and the rest of all living organisms.

                If there was nothing special about being human, there was no meaning to the concepts of _dehumanizing_ or _inhumane._

The dossier read:

_The zygote which later became the organism known as Subject 324B21 was successfully reproduced on 12.6.1983. Later developmental landmarks include its birth at approximately 16:20 on 3.9 of the following year._

Those lines, navy blue on cream stationary, clean and perfect and precise, flashed into Delphine Cormier’s mind when, over a Manhattan preceding dinner, Cosima said, “My birthday’s in March.” She paused to take a sip. “Too cold for an outdoor party, but what can you do?”

                Delphine nodded, smiling tightly. She had nothing to say to that. Perhaps it was interesting that the date that stuck in Cosima’s mind was the one associated with her birth, rather than the genesis of her life; she would make a note of it later. No, she would not, she thought, contradicting herself. It was unremarkable. Most humans celebrated their birthdays and did not know the date of their zygotification; July 6th, 1983 was far more biologically important, but it was only Dr. Cormier who knew it. 

                “When’s yours?”

                “Sorry?” asked Delphine, eyes wide.

                “Your _birthday?_ ” her subject followed up, a silent _bozo_ tagging along behind her question.

                “Oh!” exclaimed the scientist. “Twenty-first December.”

                “Near Christmas,” remarked Cosima, grimacing in sympathy. “Ouch.”

                “It is not so bad,” Delphine said noncommittally, though she grinned down at the biological anomaly sitting next to her.

                Smiles came easily with her subject. She was advanced in her field, well-respected as an immunologist as well as successful in her more under-the-table work, and made a pretty penny off of it, even as a young woman. But she self-admittedly could become awkward in social settings; what was there to talk about with people who hadn’t the barest sliver of understanding of the passion of your life, the things you spent your days working on, your evenings talking about, and your nights dreaming of?

                She was a bore at parties, she’d been told. It was all new genetics and evolutionary theory with Dr. Cormier, all of the time. So she stuck to work friends, which was wise anyway – because of all that confidentiality.

                Cosima ate geek-talk for breakfast. In fact, she was so eager to hear about Delphine’s research and crazy theories and favorite symposia that the scientist had to carefully regulate what she said in order to sound like she was still pursuing her degree. She wanted to talk about her graduate thesis; but then Cosima would want to read it. The problem was – it was finished. And, of course, it had her real name on it.

                So Delphine guided them towards topics she had a more dabbling interest in, fields outside of her own. Energy conservation. Biotechnology in medicine. She even took them so far as physics – the space elevator, dark matter, tachyons, the big bang. But Cosima wanted to talk about artificial DNA; and Dr. Cormier, for reasons related to the reams of contracts she’d had to sign, did not.

                _Subject mentioned synthetic DNA and replication again,_ she wrote in her log. Over a lazy Sunday lunch, it had been, over glasses of white wine and with Cosima’s Egyptian eyes peering out intimately over her frames. That was not relevant information. Dr. Cormier appended to her lab book: _It is almost certainly self-aware._

                Sometimes they talked about regular people things, like birthdays in December.

                That always made Dr. Cormier a little stiff, a little uncomfortable, because it usually involved providing her subject with information about herself. Was Delphine Beraud’s birthday in December? Did it matter? She had no idea. And even beyond her false identity – her role was to glean as many details about 324B21 as possible; those contracts said nothing about giving personal information _to_ her subject. It felt wrong, like a violation of procedure, to interact with her subject like that. She could be skewing the results, or steering the conversation, or altering the path of the subject’s life in some small way. Butterfly Effect, and all.

                She’d always been more comfortable sitting by the sidelines and watching, anyway. She had a scientific mind, they said. They never said what _else._

                But the rules of human interaction dictated an eye for an eye, a birthday for a birthday, and so it went.

                Birthday near Christmas, Cosima had said. That sucked. Did it? Delphine wanted to say, _Who says I am a Christian anyway?_ to expose the bias of her charge’s mind, the part that assumed blonde white French girls must have grown up with a cross on the wall and a midnight mass to go to instead of staying up for Santa.

                _Who says I am a Christian anyway?_ She thought about it. It was too revealing. She kept her mouth closed.

                The subject leaned across the table, eyes wide and made even wider by the dancing reflections on her glasses. Influence of external conditions, Dr. Cormier thought. The subject’s myopia, induced by long nights reading under the covers with a flashlight, was well-documented by now; she had no need to make note of it. But make note of it she did; her eyes traced the thick line of the frames and the thick line of kohl underneath, the lashes and strong brows and tan skin making up a perfectly unique, perfectly identical organism.

                Maybe, Dr. Cormier thought, if she stepped back she would be able to see the subject for what it was. A scientific miracle, a first step on the moon, a perfect copy. Maybe looking too closely, with Cosima leaning across the table so far her wrap sweater threatened to steal a sip of wine for itself, distorted the full image, like looking at the shape of puzzle pieces and forgetting the picture they comprised.

Dr. Cormier thought about leaning back. Scientific miracles were to be recorded in the literature and published in magazines; they brought grant money and fame and your name on an enzyme, if you were lucky. Scientific miracles did not talk about things that made you excited, in a scratchy, slangy voice that made you excited, and you never, never, thought that maybe if you’d met a scientific miracle when you were younger, you’d be a different person, with more friends and fewer lines in your face.

Instead of pulling away, Delphine tilted her head in and let a few locks of bouncy, dyed hair brush forward like a curtain.

“Let’s get out of here,” Delphine said in a hushed voice, unable to identify her own tone.

“Let’s,” agreed the subject.

For all the information her contracts and forms and disclosure agreements neglected to provide on 324B21 (for example – that she only drank wine because she liked feeling sophisticated, that she liked to study on the floor on her stomach with papers and devices strewn about her like the aftermath of an earthquake, that she smelled like potpourri) it left out even more vital facts about the role of the monitor.

It read:

_The role and responsibilities of the Monitor, Dr. Delphine Cormier, are first and foremost to collect data on the subject’s changing and static biology and psychology, to report it immediately and without omission to the Dyad Institute, and complete any other necessary tasks as assigned by supervisor Dr. Aldous Leekie._

                It failed spectacularly to convey the difficulty of collecting data on a self-aware organism, one that looked at you with burning brown eyes when you tried to take its pulse.

                After dinner, Dr. Cormier gained access to the living quarters of her subject. It was not unprecedented; but previously she had only stepped in briefly when she came by to pick Cosima up or drop off a paper. Now Cosima led her up the stairs by hand, threw the door open unceremoniously, and apologized disingenuously for the state of everything.

                “No, I like it. It suits you,” said Delphine, as was expected. A moment after the words passed her lips, she looked at the hanging Near Eastern curtains and the books strewn about the floor, and it occurred to her that it was true.

                Her pulse began to race the moment she crossed the threshold. Papers, folders, books scattered all about - a goldmine of information, should she find a way to remove the presence of the subject. Here she was in a prime position to advance her mission.

                From the looks of it, so was Cosima. Only their missions were worlds apart.

                Or - ?

                “…what this is really about,” finished Cosima, looking up at her with fire in her eyes. She advanced; all Dr. Cormier could think was that the mission was lost. She was found out. Cosima must have found her triple-encrypted log, or put two-and-two together.

                The scientist froze. What to do – run, or admit, or try to cover up again? Was it possible to excuse herself and call Dr. Leekie? But Cosima was coming closer, face set hard and tension crackling in the air.

She was expecting a slap, or a sneer, or spit in her face. What she got was a little bit different.

                Delphine left the upstairs apartment with her knees knocking together in her slacks; when she made it, stumbling, down the stairs, it was all she could do to slide down the wall and sit, crumpled, at the bottom of the stairwell, adrenaline making her fingers quiver as she tried to dial.

                 “Dr. Cormier!” exclaimed the man pleasantly on the other end of the line. “What’s this about? Everything alright?”

                “Dr. Leekie,” said Delphine, biting her lip. Her voice did not shake. She considered it an achievement worthy of the Nobel. “I have a question about procedure.”

                While she was waiting, Dr. Cormier thought about 324B21. Back when she had been an intern, analyzing blood samples and cheek swabs and crunching numbers, she’d been told the numbers referred to the date the samples were taken. All the different samples were all from the same individual, said the supervisor. But that didn’t sit right with Delphine, not when she sat down and looked at the biological material and the numbers.

                She’d figured it out pretty quickly; she’d held on to the information for a long time before she’d finally decided to use it as leverage. The only thing she dared to hope for was hush bribe. She’d stormed into her supervisor’s office with the print-outs, waving them about and shouting about international law. She’d half-expected to leave in handcuffs, or in a bag; but she had little choice given that per her contract she practically owned her. Instead, they’d offered her a promotion.

                She was blessed with the opportunity to continue her research, with access to a huge span of new material and tools now that she knew what she was working on. Thinking about it made her head spin.

                324B21 had always been her favorite. She supposed it was something to do with the myopia, the marker that made it so easy to pick 324B21 out in a crowd of genetic identicals. Most of the time all of their tests returned nearly-identical results; it had been one gold-plated blade of grass in an entire meadow when Dr. Cormier had been running eye scans and saw that trademark distended retina. _Ah,_ she’d thought, _there’s my subject._

For all the time she and her team had spent poring over samples of varying kinds of tissue and plasma and bodily fluids, they’d never been shown visuals of their subjects with all their skin in place, un-sedated and in a natural setting. When she’d been promoted to monitor, she’d recieved a driver’s license photo of a girl with a beaming smile, glasses, and –

_Dreads?_ Did they even allow that in the lab?

It was sort of neolutionist, wasn’t it? The subject was making choices that altered her own evolution, that made her different from the scores of her identicals. Dreadlocks and glasses and a beaming smile. Under a microscope and in real life, 324B21 was special; and she knew it. She _engineered_ her own uniqueness _._

Delphine had been so excited to meet her. She had been so excited to observe the subject in person. She didn’t know whether those two things were the same or different.

Now she was sitting in the bottom of a stairwell with her long legs crumpled over one another, a hand pressed to her lips like some newly kissed fourteen-year-old with stars in her eyes. Violated? Did she feel violated? The scientist in her felt violated, felt her precious experiment had been contaminated the minute their lips touched. What about the rest of her? Delphine didn’t know.

                The good doctor must have surmised it was something of an emergency, because his driver picked her up in less than twenty minutes. And there he was, in the back of the car, bald and golem-y and supremely unflustered by her news. She wanted to hit him. At least by the time she slid into the backseat, she had stopped shaking.

                “It is supremely inappropriate,” she said, looking down at her own clenched fingers as the car lurched into a start. “I do not know how I can remain close to the subject.”

                Her supervisor smiled at her as if she were a child. “No, no, _no,_ Dr. Cormier!” he said jovially. He knew the formal address stoked her ego; she knew he knew it, but it did nothing to stop the surge of pride when such an accomplished man used her title. “This is precisely where we want you.”

                Delphine blinked. She stood still. She did not understand. Instead, because it was very rare that she did not understand, she said, “But this is very important data, yes? It could clear up the whole debate on genetics and orientation.”

                “Important information, yes,” said Dr. Leekie. “New information, no.”

                The junior scientist took in a sharp breath and looked up at her supervisor, eyes wide and pupils dilated in the low light of the night. “But it is not in the corpus! Politically sensitive, I understand, but deleting something like this - !”

                “It is recorded,” explained Leekie. “I’m afraid it’s above your pay grade.” He said it with such an apologetic tone, it might have been believable.

                Delphine sucked in a long breath and sat back against the leather interior, gaze straight ahead but unseeing. Her hair spread out, fluffy, against the seat; a few errant strands brushed Leekie’s shoulder, and she longed for the energy to pull them away. “You should have told me,” she said, trying not to sound accusatory and failing. “It is relevant to my position.”

                “Very relevant,” Leekie said. “And what is your position, again?”

                She replied instantaneously. “Monitor to 324B21.” She felt like she ought to append a _sir!_

                “Dr. Cormier, you’re a brilliant woman,” he said in that infomercial voice. “Surpassing even myself at your age.” She doubted it. “Would you agree that a monitor needs unlimited access to her subject’s biology?”

                “I would.” She was afraid she could see where this was going.

                “Then I am sure you can see why you are uniquely positioned to crack the Cosima Code.”

                She paused before answering. “So – I am – a prostitute? A prostitute with an advanced degree?”

                “Does that bother you?”

                Dr. Cormier looked deep into her supervisor’s eyes, jaw clenched and mouth hard. “No,” she said. The mission was foremost.

                As she mounted the stairs to the flat rented to her by Dyad, Delphine’s hand fluttered neurotically against the straps of her purse. She had never met another monitor or another clone; she had the sense it was not permitted. In fact, if her hunch was right, the entire experiment was supposed to be double-blind. Why, then, had _she_ been chose to monitor Cosima? Because the damn girl would outwit any other monitor? Because the double-blind was already screwed by Cosima’s clever, curious mind?

                So Delphine had not known what _monitor_ meant. It really should have been included in the contract. Had the others known from the get-go? Had they been lovers and spouses first, and then turned traitor to their loved ones? Or had they been spies, seducing the unknowing clones with full knowledge of their own treachery?

                That was what she was supposed to do, the part that was written in the contract only between the lines. Seduce Cosima.

                Apparently, she had succeeded.

                Delphine did not sleep that night.

                Throughout the next day, she wondered, a sequence of cups of coffee clutched in her white-knuckled hands – would she have signed that contract if it had been complete? If that dossier had included the very vital information that she was supposed to sleep with the subject? Or everything else it left out – the way Cosima’s eyes lit up when she talked about her research; the way her teeth gleamed sharply against her lip; the way she wrapped herself proudly in that red coat like a dreadlocked Egyptian hipster queen. It had left out Cosima talking, soft and melancholy, about her dad, how they used to do puzzles on the table at Christmas. It left out the way she pushed at the bridge of her nose, trying to adjust her glasses even when she had taken them off.

                Four ‘o’ clock lab came too soon. It was a good thing Dr. Cormier already had her degree, because her grade was certain to be shit given how thoroughly she neglected procedure in favor of stealing glances at Cosima across the room. Cosima reached out to take down notes, and her lab coat inched up to reveal the hint of a curl of ink.

                The literature on 324B21 included photographs of her tattoos, conjectures on tattoos as an expression of originality. They did not include their explanations, scratchy and babbling and hurting for a nap after spending yet another late night crumpled over a stack of books.

                “The golden ratio,” drawled Cosima, with a little irony, eyes red with not enough sleep and too much weed. “Science quantifies perfection.”

                “That it does,” Delphine had breathed reverently. That was her life’s work, in six short words, set in the mouth of the person most fit to speak them in the entire world.

                “And here – “ continued the student, pulling up her other sleeve. “A dandelion. ‘Cause it all goes with the wind in the end.”

                Delphine had searched for the meaning, for a piece of her soul that would resonate with the dandelion on Cosima’s wrist, but there was nothing. She would keep trying.

                Then Cosima had looked at her, fondly, eyes skittering over Delphine’s upper half. She shied away from the inspection; she was observer, not observed, and role reversal made her twitch. “Your hair’s kinda like a dandelion,” said the clone, tilting her head sideways and grinning. Then she went on, singsong, blowing air into Delphine’s face, “How - many – boyfriends - do I have?”

                Not a strand moved more than an inch. Cosima gazed up at her, eyes glittering with something Delphine _should_ have recognized as desire; she was no longer a little girl, after all, but a familiar element in an unexpected context must have confused her.

                “By the looks of it,” Cosima continued, eyes tracking the untameable mass that constantly surrounded Dr. Cormier’s skull. “A finite but arbitrarily large number of them.”

                “What would your dad say?” Delphine quipped, unthinkingly. The words had come so naturally to her; very little was natural in Dr. Cormier’s life, these days. It was all synthetic, sterilized, and labelled, so as to avoid cross-contamination.

                Then Cosima had laughed, and Delphine stopped worrying.

                Now Delphine was doing a lot of worrying. She stood in front of the full-length mirror in her hotel room, suitcase thrown wide and perfectly empty because all of her belongings were strewn across the floor in a desperate attempt to make some rhyme or reason out of pattern and color and fabric. Normally she simply dressed how she wanted to look, varying the degree of formality to suit the occasion; her procedure received positive reviews.

                But this was – the big night. The mission, and her career, turned on tonight.

                It was a bit like constructing a façade for a movie set; her costume was supposed to look good, but it had no need for durability. Easy removal was important; then, no buttons, no tricky tight things. Nothing too revealing; that was unlike her, and the subject might sense disingenuity. So, then, it was important to dress as she usually did, as if she were not taking nearly an hour to find a few pieces of cloth suitable for covering her body in the Minnesota fall.

                How did she normally dress? How had she done it that morning, and the night before? It hadn’t mattered then.

                Finally she settled on a stylish but comfortable sweater, wearing no shirt underneath, and a red-pink skirt. Easy access. Her stomach turned at the thought. Going without underwear was too forward, not to mention uncomfortable; she picked a pair that neither matched nor clashed with her bra, to look accidental. Like she wasn’t planning on getting stripped that evening.

                This seduction business had suddenly become a very calculated affair. Then again, wasn’t it always? Delphine didn’t know. In the normal world, the world without clones and monitors and immunologist-prostitutes, she was a heterosexual woman who had no need to seduce or approach or bend down to kiss her lover. She thought about that; about the angle in her neck when Cosima had kissed her; about how the statistically significant centimeters that made her subject fit against her chest.

                All of them would be the same height, then, give or take. If any were malnourished as children, they might be smaller; but all the genetic identicals would fit under Dr. Cormier’s chin in that same, childlike, intimate way. She pictured it; but the others would not have Cosima’s draping dreads. It was not really the difference in their heights that characterized the way it felt when Cosima stood near her, but rather that glittering gaze when she looked up at Delphine like the blonde woman was the Holy Grail and she, a questing knight. It was that look that made Dr. Cormier’s stomach turn in on itself and her mind scramble frantically for relevant conclusions to draw, to jot down later and report, for anything else to think of to maintain her distance as researcher when Cosima got nearer and nearer –

                Delphine drew in a shaking, wheezing breath, leaning heavily on the bathroom countertop. Trying to draw herself back into the present, she craned her neck forward to look at herself in the mirror, but that turned out to be a mistake. A crazy woman stared back at her, blonde ringlets all over the place and face pale and worn, eyes huge in their pink sockets.

                But it was almost time; she couldn’t dally. She attacked her poodle-y mane with a brush and a spritz bottle, managing to coerce it into some kind of cohesive mass. Makeup was a no-go; her hands were shaking too hard to apply anything but a dash of eyeshadow and mascara.

                Delphine reevaluated. Now she looked like a crazy woman with eyeshadow. But there was nothing to be done; she collected her bag, looking through it for the necessaries. Lipstick (if she could ever calm down enough to put it on), wallet with Mlle. Beraud’s ID, some light reading, phone with Dr. Leekie’s number registered as “Mari de Carol K”.  No condoms – that was one concern she could neglect to worry about, she supposed.

                Then Dr. Cormier froze, hand mid-rummage in her purse. No condoms needed – was anything else needed? It had been a long, long time since Dr. Cormier had sat in _biologie_ _troisième_ and read those pamphlets with scientific interest while her classmates screwed up their noses in disgust and pretended not to be wholly invested in the mechanics of intercourse. Nothing had been said of lesbian sex back then, nor the necessary precautions associated therewith. Today, possibly, it was more comprehensive.

                It was too late for Google, and far too late for a trip to the store. The hour was getting late. Delphine would have to trust Cosima to be prepared. Cosima was usually prepared for anything.

                Dr. Cormier listened to the rhythmic thud-thud of her flat-heeled boots on the stairs to Cosima’s apartment, thinking that she was far too prepared for the night. It could all go wrong. It probably would all go wrong; she would manage to mess it up, somehow. Cosima was well versed in the female body and even better-versed in its biology; she would read all of Dr. Cormier’s lies in her clenched jaw, her closed eyes, her…performance.

                And all that was without getting into the ethics of what might happen if she did not mess it up.

                Delphine screwed her eyes shut. _Stop thinking so much,_ she begged herself even as she knocked on the door.

                “Coming!” she heard, muffled behind the walls, and a scramble of papers and glasses and possibly a joint.

                Then, way before she was ready, Cosima was standing there, all big apologetic eyes and that bohemian way she seemed to lean and slide and dangle through her own apartment. Dimly, Delphine heard her subject apologize, which seemed to contradict the fact that she was wearing a crop top. If she were truly sorry, Delphine thought nonsensically, she would not dress like that. Had she known Delphine was coming over, and dressed to seduce? Maybe in Berkeley everyone let their abdominals breathe the air. It seemed Cosima’s were breathing quite a bit, because there was no air left for Dr. Cormier. She started to feel light-headed, and gripped the desk to steady herself.

                Dr. Cormier wondered if all the monitors reported details of their sexual encounters. Or was that a means to an end, merely a tool to gain access to the subject’s body and not something to report in and of itself? For all her admiration of Aldous Leekie, she did not want to write this up. After all, her task was to study 324B21; disclosure of this encounter ( _if_ it happened, she reminded herself, which was growing less and less likely the more she stood there dumbly) would inevitably be a report on herself, as well. The scientist was not supposed to figure into the experiment. Besides, Delphine’s sex life had always been a very private thing, never confessed in giggled whispers over mimosas to girlfriends, never shared with high-fives and bro hugs among her beau’s buddies.

                It had been too long a silence. Dr. Cormier had to act. “I cannot stop thinking about that kiss,” she confessed, breathily, tapping agitatedly at the table. Immediately after she said it, her insides recoiled. That was a terrible opening line, delivered terribly. She must have heard it in a bad rom-com somewhere.

                She followed it up, expertly, with a true Casanova’s brilliance, with a babbling rant about human sexuality. Her palms were damp; she could not wipe them without attracting Cosima’s attention.

                Attract Cosima’s attention she did. The subject was looking at her with eyes like gemstones, hard and glittering and impenetrable. This stumbling, trite, incredibly awkward thing could not possibly be working, Delphine thought, and proceeded to panic. She heard herself giggling. Oh God why the giggling.

                “…and totally encouraging,” said Cosima around an apparent lump in her throat. It came out husky and inviting, and painfully honest. It made the knot in Delphine’s stomach tighten two degrees. An opening, then.

                Dr. Cormier thought hard, taking in every centimeter of Cosima’s face. An exercise in dissociation, then. If she really were a bi-curious immunology student trying to make Cosima her experiment in a far more innocuous manner than the truth, what would she do now? Make a move. It wasn’t hard to imagine – Cosima was gorgeous, poised, and intrinsically self-confident in a way Delphine had never been. Mlle. Beraud was longing to touch her, to drift her fingers along the only skin she dared to interact with: Cosima’s face, just a copy of another, and yet so definitely her own.

                But the girl was so far away. It was a good thing Delphine’s arms reached long, befitting her frame. She caressed Cosima’s jaw, tenderly, revering the manmade miracle that had stitched together that soft skin from a string of four nucleotides. But the scientist who scented that skin with something like potpourri was none other than its wearer, the one standing before her.

                Delphine’s thoughts milled about like unherded sheep as traced Cosima’s lips with her thumb. Dyad had made this skin, but only Cosima could wear it in a way that made her want to -

                She kissed her. That is, _Delphine_ kissed her; _which_ Delphine was still up for debate. Dr. Cormier patted herself on the back even mid-kiss; she hadn’t even had to drink for courage. Phase one complete, within ten minutes of entering the apartment. The experiment must go on.

                Then Cosima jumped eagerly into the kiss; Delphine’s eyes closed, and she forgot about Leekie and data to record and being a prostitute.

                It was very important, as an observer, not to influence the subject more than necessary. Dr. Cormier had decided to maintain her distance as much as possible, to be largely passive under the guise of nerves, and let Cosima do her thing. Besides, that would be more feasible for her, given that she was interested in Cosima only as an object of study, anyway.

                So it was a bit confusing when Delphine felt herself surge forward, a strange hunger invading her own chest. She devoured Cosima’s mouth, made intimate maps and diagrams with her tongue, sucked and licked and came on far too strong; but Cosima responded, as much as she could under Delphine’s assault. Her heart hammered in her ears; she heard long, gasping breaths, and wasn’t sure from whom they originated.

               

                She liked being the tall one, she decided. She liked craning over Cosima and the leverage it gave her.

                Maybe it was impossible to be passive in a situation like this. To be convincing, to be a good little science hooker, she had to pretend to be invested.

                That was what she told herself when she scrabbled ineffectually at Cosima’s sweater, hands useless and dangling like a marionette’s. The clone helped her, and then there was one fewer barrier between them; Delphine’s pulse raced. Adrenaline from advancing this most precarious part of the mission. She could feel it all over her body, in her wrists where they brushed Cosima’s sides, in her throat where Cosima’s mouth now pressed a delicate kiss. And –

                She pulled weakly at the straps to Cosima’s patterned bandeau, to feel something that wasn’t skin, to shore herself up on the island of fabric and give herself a moment to allow her pounding heart to rest. But Cosima misunderstood – as would anyone – and reached behind herself to undo the top. Still her head nuzzled into the crook between Delphine’s cheek and shoulder, but the mercy of her mouth afforded the monitor a moment to catch her breath.

                “I think I need to lie down,” she huffed, smiling dreamily, grabbing at her subject’s arms.

                “We’re not there yet,” Cosima said, grinning, against her jaw. The brush of lips and air against the sensitive skin there made Delphine’s mouth open in a silent gasp, her head tilting back by reflex. “Oh?” Cosima remarked devilishly, and repeated it.

                Delphine clutched at the clone, trying to salvage some modicum of dignity and failing spectacularly. She found herself backed against a wall, with Cosima’s synthetic teeth scraping gently across the skin at her collar, Cosima’s synthetic fingers pulling into her waist with an ungodly vigor. She was drowning, drowning, and if she could not pull herself the surface she would surely forget the mission and let down all of science.

                But it was so hot inside her head, and all she could see were eagerly swaying dreadlocks and a long black skirt.

                It was so very hot, so very energetic; and purposeful, every movement of Cosima’s fingers designed to please Delphine and yet imbued with the urgency of her own searching, pounding arousal. Was this dedication a characteristic of Cosima, or of her sex? Or of her batch?

                Then something happened; something that made Delphine light-headed with how quickly her bloodstream changed direction. Cosima’s hips pressed into hers, and rolled back; once, twice, slowly but with great purpose. And then not again; perhaps her subject was holding back, not wanting to rush it.

                But Delphine had made an observation. “Do this again,” she whispered, flushing pink when she heard her own voice catch. Cosima complied, and with the full, burning contact of her pelvis, Delphine fell back against the wall. A whimpering, pitiful whine issued from her lips, a contraction deep inside making her grip on Cosima’s shoulders tighten. She was almost beyond embarrassment.

                When she regained herself, she held Cosima at arm’s length. “This,” she said thickly. “Turns me on.”

                That, apparently, did the same for Cosima, whose eyelids fluttered and breath caught in her throat. But Delphine was not done yet: “Why?” she demanded.

                “Why?” repeated Cosima huskily, smiling up at her monitor with something like adoration.

                “My body is confused,” Delphine continued, her grin just as wide. “When you do this with your…” she trailed off, passing a hand over Cosima’s hip and down to her rear in favor of finding the right word. Cosima’s smile tweaked, a breath escaping her lips, when Delphine made contact. ”It thinks there is something there. You know – with a biological purpose.”

                Cosima growled through her toothy grin, “Stop talking,” and pressed her lips to the blonde’s. Delphine used her newfound knowledge and grip on her new lover’s backside to roll them together once again; and Cosima leaned all the more heavily on her, a flush now decorating her face.

                It was best to get this over with quickly, Dr. Cormier thought. After all, it was only a means to an end, a tool to get inside Cosima’s body in a more scientific way -- once this whole prostitution thing was complete they could get on to her true mission. Besides, something clenching and twisting inside her said it couldn’t wait, it needed to broaden the expanses of Cosima’s skin obscured by her skirt.

                Dr. Cormier fumbled at the clasp of Cosima’s skirt, managing to undo it and let the fabric drop the floor. Then Cosima did the same for her; and she was standing, pressed against a wall, in Cosima’s kitchen, in her sweater and panties. It was a little silly, thought Delphine, and they really should get rid of the sweater that was beginning to make her feel stifled. But to take it off would mean removing her hands from the silky skin of the small of Cosima’s back, drawing her mouth away from that pleading, seeking, needy kiss.

                Cosima was holding herself back, being gentle with her partner who, despite her years and elegance, was still a level one lesbian. And Delphine was grateful for it; for all her desire to get this over with, she was a little frightened, still certain in the back of her mind that Cosima would uncover her lie and leave her in her underwear on the street. So when Cosima’s fingers began to flirt with the top her panties, slung high over her hips, she said, warningly, “Cosima.”

                Well. She was supposed to say, warningly, “Cosima.” Then, maybe, “Slower.” Or “I’m not ready.”

                Instead, the clone’s name came out panting and whiny, pleading, dark and rough around the edges. It came out like, “Please.” It came out like, “Take me now.” How on Earth would she ever be able to say that name again without being transported back to this moment again?

                She really should have corrected herself, Delphine thought. But when the name passed her lips, Cosima’s head ducked to plant a kiss on her throat, and oh, no, this was where the world began to end – Cosima’s bare leg slipped in between Delphine’s, knee pressing against the wall and her thigh pressing –

                “Oh my God, Delphine,” said Cosima brokenly, breaking the kiss but not the pressure that swelled up from that place where one leg met the juncture between two others, that frazzling pressure which threatened to roll up like a wave and engulf her.

                Delphine swallowed before answering, trying to fix her voice. “What is it?”

                “Oh, it’s just. Sorry,” Cosima explained skittishly. “You’re, like, uh, drenched.”

                “I am - ?” Delphine broke off when she realized the meaning behind the word, turning pink as a rose. That wasn’t supposed to happen. She was playing pretend. She had been planning on closing her eyes, laying back and thinking of France, imagining the last man she’d been with and choking out a fake orgasm.

                This was not supposed to be happening.

                “Let’s get you to bed,” Cosima said huskily, tugging on Delphine’s arm and leading her, giggling mindlessly all the way, to the mattress. Delphine flopped onto it, hair spreading out like a lion’s mane cross the covers, feeling like a maniac and wondering why she couldn’t stop grinning.

                Then Cosima settled on top of her, and her grin melted into a kiss, a kiss that made her hips raise up off the mattress without her permission. Cosima started, surprised, perhaps, but soon went on. Delphine immediately lost her mind, if it had not been lost already; she felt her right leg jerk out to the side, then wrap around Cosima’s hip, bringing them so close that she could feel the heat from Cosima’s core melting into her, feel the slipperiness that she had so resolutely ignored.

                Then Cosima paused, lifting herself up, gazing fondly, thoughtfully down at her monitor, who wriggled beneath her when the movement stopped. “So how do you want to start?” asked the student. Delphine found herself in awe that Cosima could still speak in full sentences; she heard an inhuman groan issue from her own mouth and felt her own hands press Cosima back down into her.

                “Okay, then, Miss Eager,” Cosima whispered. “We’ve got all night.”

                Cosima’s hips rippled and Delphine’s twitched upward; a leg found its place and within a minute the doctor felt that familiar balloon expanding inside her, pushing her to grind shamelessly into Cosima’s thigh, wriggling aimlessly back and forth and side to side and up and down as wave upon wave of tingling, shaking sex fell down upon her, even before she reached the top. When she did it was catastrophic; her breath stopped, her body pressed into Cosima’s like peanut butter into jelly; the feeling of Cosima’s pulse pounding intimately against her only prolonged the moment.

                It was a bit of a rude way to conduct sex, thought Delphine when she fell back against the mattress. She had not been very attentive to her lover. She would fix that, now – but Cosima’s hand was tracing constellations on her stomach, one dipping over her hip bones and the other reaching up to make love to her breast. She was not yet spent, it turned out. It was a bit embarrassing.

                Even through the moans she failed to stifle, issuing between her clenched teeth and pursed lips, Delphine managed to grab her subject, to pull at her hip and make her shudder. But when the monitor tried to take charge, Cosima only shook her head, dreads swaying.

                “We’ve got all night,” she assured the blonde woman. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

                She did, many times over; and, haltingly, with a roadmap from Cosima, she returned the favor. But when at long last she fell into the pillows, the long night perfuming the room and making her bones feel like water, she found a hole in her heart and tears starting at the corners of her eyes.

                There was some literature on the female orgasm; Dr. Cormier had read articles claiming the hormones associate with it made women become emotionally attached to their partner. The claims were always suspiciously sexist and employed questionable evolutionary theory; Delphine had never believed it. Now she thought back over the night (and the morning) and came to the conclusion that - it was not the orgasm that did her in. She had been lost since that day they’d run hand in hand, clutching stolen bottles of wine like babies in their arms, through the university courtyard that had never looked so beautiful. It was 324B21’s stupid myopia and its stupid Egyptian eyeliner. It was Cosima, rebellious and loving, a scientific miracle and a miracle of a woman - and a damn good academic, at that.

                Delphine had been damned from the start.

                She had failed the mission. No, she had advanced the mission and failed Cosima. Beautiful, pushing-for-uniqueness, attentive Cosima, who was special not only for her origins. “Never am I so hungry,” Dr. Cormier said, smiling up at her subject, and thinking of all the places in the apartment Cosima might hide the information she was looking for.


End file.
